The Tangled Web We Weave
by Regina Imperatrix
Summary: A play on the Colonel’s thoughts of one Bridget von Hammersmark.


**Title:** The Tangled Web We Weave**  
Pairing/Character(s):** Slight one-sided Hans Landa/Bridget von Hammersmark**  
****Disclaimer: **Inglourious Basterds and all immediate characters, themes and ideas are registered trademarks and belong to Quentin Tarantino. No profit is being accumulated from this writing piece.**  
Word Count:** 1,321**  
Spoilers:** Yes**  
****Warnings: **Dark and adult themes.**  
Summary: **Bridget von Hammersmark _was_ a brilliant actress.

**Notes:** Recently wrote and posted this on my livejournal, and figured I might as well upload it here. Enjoy!

* * *

Actresses are an intriguing breed.

Intriguing, in that their very profession is predicated upon a lie. Always pretending, donning fake personas and conveying the most complex of human emotions without so much as a bat of the eyelid. Day in and day out, their routine of forced smiles and false tears continued, and so he often found himself wondering whether there was anything of _truth_ to them at all. Of _substance_.

Surely, if a person played pretend their entire life, how could they seek to distinguish themselves from all the characters they may have portrayed? From all those they have yet to play? A puzzling query – and he so _did_ love puzzles! – that would sooner see him reach a crux. That would force him to ecstatically ponder over what _truly_ lay beneath all the glamorous facades and scandalous rumours, and he's _ever_ the detective. So putting to use all the tools of his trade, he begins a search for much-desired truth.

First, he observes. Studies critically their dubious virtues, displayed with or without self-consciousness… looks for the cracks on their well-donned masks. Not an easy feat, he soon comes to learn, and he mentally labels them masters of deception.

Next, he notes their habits. Their petulant need for admiration. Their weakness for flattery. Their fickle flight from one handsome gentleman to another. If he were to compare them to a beast, they would most definitely be butterflies. Elusive, hypnotic, social butterflies… _trophies_ for the taking! And like a collector with a net… predatory spider on a web, he _strikes_.

Prey to his bait, they feed off his sugary words, charming smiles and gentlemanly attention. The lack of effort on his part is certainly surprising, but at their seductive grins and sing-song laughs, he wonders once again which face he is granted the _frustrating_ pleasure of seeing.

The answer, thus, continues to elude him. But he is nothing if not persistent.

Light is shed, ironically, in the dark. Behind the closed doors of their bedchambers, as they writhe wildly underneath him… consumed by the proverbial throes of lust-filled passion so aptly recorded by history's greatest poets. Here, away from any source of brightness, his little butterflies begin to slip. Pinned down effortlessly, and his eyes never leave their gorgeous face.

Much is revealed during such raw, unreserved moments, and he studies it _all_. Curious butterflies, pretty butterflies… how he watches their lashes flutter and their lips part as they sing their wanton cries. Consumed by untamed ecstasy, and the end is near as the masks, alas, begin to come off. Sees them finally for what they _really_ are….

Human.

_Disappointingly_ human.

He's not quite sure what he expected to find… some great truth, perhaps? Certainly if their lavish lifestyles and world of make-believe promised anything, it would be something of the fantastical. There is none of that, he muses sadly, no extraordinary revelations to be had and the screen's revered sirens are _just_ like the rest of them; human.

All too human, hiding behind a veil of lies and _that_ is the truth.

Of course, there are those that can lie far better than others. Brilliant actresses, and the not-so brilliant. Detective that he is, ever skilled at reading people and exposing what he sees, he can usually tell… distinguish the good from the bad.

Bridget von Hammersmark _was_ a brilliant actress.

Exceptionally good at lying – once upon a time – and her facade was one not so easy to pick apart. He thus beseeched her, many a time, exceptional beauty that she is, and she would have made a fine, _nein_, worthy addition to his list of unravelled conquests.

She was a resilient butterfly, however. Quite unlike the rest, and what had she said? …Ah yes, she would not be falling into _that_ 'honey pot'.

If Lady Fortune had not played her propitious hand, he _may_ have been offended.

But now, as they stand in tense opposition in the crowded foyer, weaving a web of deception like the practiced professionals they are, all pretences of civility and mutual admiration slowly begin to ebb away. Surrounded by American fools, her pride and resoluteness withering with every question – yes, he _does_ tease rough – she is less and less Germany's coveted actress, and he would have sighed if he were feeling marginally cordial. If the truth had not been so _generously_ exposed to him; modesty aside, he _is_ a good detective.

Rather, at her pathetic attempts to maintain appearances – mountain climbing, _really_? – he laughs. So amusing; watching the little butterfly squirm, caught in his web if you will. _Thoroughly_ amusing, made all the more entertaining in that he _knows_ she is lying. And quite badly, at that.

_Oh Fräulein von Hammersmark… how _low_ you have fallen! _

Nevertheless, it dawns on him that it is time to bring the masquerade to a close.

Seated within the Mademoiselle Mimieux's office – and how fitting that it should be _dark_ – he smiles and toys with her some more when really all he wants is to _tear her apart_! Bestows a new role upon her, broken actress that she is and it will be her last, that of _Cinderella_ with a tragic twist and… _voila_! The shoe fits!

Eyes full of terror and oh so wide – at last, something _true_ to behold – the final veil falls and he sees her finally for what she _really_ is….

Whore.

_Traitorous_ whore.

She tries to be brave when she asks him what is to come next… tries not to _break_ as tears pool in her eyes. She tries. She fails. Oh well, he's had fun.

Really, he has.

Still, he's not quite sure what emotion claims him next.

Anger?

Madness?

Grief?

A combination, perhaps?

Either way, before he himself realizes, he's lunging forward with potent fury… sending her to the floor as his hands wrap about a beautiful porcelain throat, and how did _that_ happen? Small surprise, to be sure – he's not usually this frenzied – but he does not pause, nor does his grip falter.

Interesting….

A part of him, one not enslaved by vitriol emotion, looks down upon her then with morose nostalgia. Gazes into sapphire orbs and finds… _truth_. Great truth. Behind the closed door of the small office, as she writhes wildly underneath him… consumed by the proverbial throes of pain-filled desperation so aptly recorded by history's greatest poets. Here, away from any source of brightness, his little butterfly begins to slip. Pinned down effortlessly, and his eyes never leave her gorgeous face.

…He almost laughs at the distorted connection.

Connection all the same, and it makes perfect sense. Love and death: exhausted topics for the writers of the world, but so quintessentially human. One could even say they _define_ human, and it's no wonder poets write of nothing else. Inspire too, perhaps unintentionally, unrepentant sex and murder with their colourful words and vivid imagery… both acts of _passion_ and the two match each other perfectly.

Elation at the revelation, consumed by utter _passion_ and nothing else, he thus takes his answers and so much more the moment he tightens his grip. Fascinating butterfly, broken butterfly… how he watches her eyes bulge and face go red as he squeezes the very life from her. Consumed by horror, and the end is near as the _last_ mask, alas, at long last comes off.

Sees his favourite little actress leave the world more beautiful than when she came in; her _real_ face deathly pale and eyes eerily dim.

And then, silence follows.

He studies her for most of it. Falls victim to the sight of her so listlessly exposed, and he caresses her cheek adoringly, all too tender and as if they were parted lovers. Places a soft kiss on red lips – a parting farewell – _still_ lips, that will never weave naughty little lies ever again.

Yes, actresses intrigue him greatly.

But none quite as much as the late Bridget von Hammersmark.

_Fin_


End file.
